


Home Plate Bound

by Chillyfoot



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, I'm not tagging characters that appear exclusively in That One Chapter, Road Trips, Self-Indulgent, can u fEel it f e e Db a cK?, what have I done?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:29:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26708266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chillyfoot/pseuds/Chillyfoot
Summary: Fans and fate brought three iconic players together. If the power of the Blaseball gods is anything to go by, it'll take a long time to tear them apart.Updated every time one of the main characters gets involved in a feedback swap.Rated T for mild to moderate language and inherent horror elements. Extra content warnings: body horror, food, probably something else I've forgotten
Relationships: Jaylen Hotdogfingers & NaN, Jaylen Hotdogfingers & Sixpack Dogwalker, Sixpack Dogwalker & NaN
Comments: 16
Kudos: 29





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Receivers take their first message.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fanfic was inspired by an offhand comment by Fridays fan Jen, and named for the end result of a series of jokes made by Fridays fans Clearbrook, Rich, and Doodleplex. Thanks, all of you, for finally giving me an excuse to write a road trip story.

_ Postseason 8 _

_ Blaseball Headquarters, Los Angeles #7372 _

CAMERA 1+GFX

The clock rolled down to zero. Season 8 was officially over. The top twenty players, as chosen by fans, took seats corresponding to their positions on the leaderboard.

CAMERA 4

At the top was the pitching machine sent to the Unlimited Tacos, which had to be carried to the #1 chair by two unpaid Blaseball office interns. Axel Trololol did not fit in his chair, or any chair, as he was a full-sized fire truck in a peanut shell fitted to him by dark magic. No one was even sure how they got him to the office in the first place.

CAMERA 3

The Shelled One descended. The camera followed it to the twenty folding chairs and the people sitting in (or by) them. Peanut shells split the ground, toppling the first five chairs and encasing the pitching machine, York Silk of the Hawaiʻi Fridays, and Jessica Telephone of the Philly Pies. The last shell rolled violently back and forth for the next silent minute before being rested over two chairs by the interns.

GFX

The microphone symbols by the numbers 6, 11, and 18 vanished.

CAMERA 2

Those seats were occupied by the Seattle Garages’ Jaylen Hotdogfingers, the Unlimited Tacos’ NaN, and the Hawaiʻi Fridays’ Sixpack Dogwalker. Each was handed a pink microphone. When they took the microphones, a flash of pink threw off the shader’s carefully balanced colors.

CAMERA 1

Jaylen, NaN, and Sixpack glitched out in what appeared to be a camera malfunction.

CAMERA 2

This was not a malfunction. Jaylen wiggled her flickering fingers.

CAMERA 1

The camera zoomed into NaN, who lifted the microphone to speak into it. “Hi, friends,” he said. “It’s me, Wyatt.”

CAMERA 3

Sixpack Dogwalker placed her microphone on the chair and lowered her head to it. Instead of the expected bark, Wyatt Mason’s voice left her mouth. “I have a plan.”

CAMERA 1

The Shelled One went back to whence it came, and the camera tilted up as long as it could before the Shelled One disappeared.

CAMERA 4

Mrs. Silk ran onto the improvised stage and hugged the shell that contained her son. Jaylen pressed a thumb to her wrist. The display faded for a smooth transition into

GFX

Postseason_Slide_8.png

The technical director let go of the slider and wrung their hands. They watched every player who still could rise from their seats from four different perspectives.

“Good job, guys. Take a break before the postseason shoot,” the director told their crew over their clearcom channel. A producer signaled to them to cut the broadcast. The technical director pushed the slider to a black screen.

GFX

(Fade to black.)

The director hung their headset over their armrest. “It’s not over yet, whether we like it or not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise you'll get more MC introspection in future chapters. I wanted to introduce the events that lead up to the main story in a relatively impersonal fashion, namely through the crew that decides what reaches the public eye.
> 
> Am I allowed to make my Blasesona a camera operator on the Blaseball HQ news team? I do have experience in the field...


	2. Have Mic, Will Travel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NaN prepares for the journey of a lifetime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the folks from multiple teams and time zones who answered all the dumb questions I asked in order to make this story happen. Special shoutout to the external Tacos server and their eagerness to help me.
> 
> Sorry for the delay! I had to rewrite this stupid thing twice, and I probably lost about two pages of content through it all.

_ Postseason 8 _

_ Los Angeles #7372 _

NaN put on his helmet and hopped on his moped. The streets, while not empty, weren’t quite as crowded as usual.  _ It’s about lunchtime, _ he thought to himself.  _ I wonder what Dad’s cooking? _ He zipped leisurely home until a Volkswagen Type 2 Bus honked loudly behind him.

“Hey!” he yelled over his shoulder. The driver’s eyes, one red, one brown, flared through the windshield.

_ Oh, crap. _

NaN took off as soon as the light turned green. Jaylen Hotdogfingers followed him.  _ Four right turns, _ NaN thought.  _ If she’s still following you, call for help. _

NaN took the first available right turn, as did Jaylen. He drove down the block until he reached his second turn. He thought he’d lose her on the third turn, but there she was after the fourth. NaN popped the center kickstand down, left his helmet on the seat, and took out his phone.

“Wait!” Jaylen said, rushing out of the minibus. “I’m not going to hurt you, I just had a question.”

There were certainly better ways to go about it, but NaN wasn’t going to tell Jaylen that. “Could it not wait until the next season?”

Jaylen shook her head, a gruesome sight with her half-rotten skin flapping off of one cheek. “I wanted to know if you feel any different after that incident with the microphones. I feel like I can’t stay still anymore, like a leaf loose on its stem, ready to blow away with the slightest wind.”

“Not really,” NaN said, “but watch this.” He held up a hand, which appeared to split apart and rejoin in horizontal layers. “Do you do that too?”

Jaylen turned her hands back and forth—“Nah.”—then held one to the side of her neck. NaN imagined the feeling of room-temperature hot dogs on his neck and cringed. “I’m still… alive, in the closest sense that could mean,” said Jaylen. That statement didn’t mean much to NaN, given that Jaylen was a revenant, a literal husk of her former self. Her exposed teeth and bones were charred black; eldritch fire burned in her right eye. “I can see you judging me.”

NaN was forced to remind himself that he, too, wasn’t human anymore; no regular human teenager had to shave antimatter off their chin in the morning.

“Where were you going before you noticed me?” Jaylen asked.

“Home,” NaN answered.

Jaylen opened the back of the minibus up. “Come on, I’ll give you a ride. Throw your scooter in the back; this baby right here will get you home in half the time.”

NaN asked Jaylen for help, and together they put the moped in the Bus. He opened the passenger door, only for Sixpack Dogwalker to reach over and lick his face.

“Oh yeah, Sixpack wanted to go riding too. I hope you don’t mind.”

“You mean her team just let you take her?”

“As long as she comes back by… whenever. They said there was no rush.”

Sixpack sniffed NaN where she licked him. NaN closed the passenger door before she could do it again. The inside of the Bus was full of… stuff, yet somehow it still felt spacious. He climbed into a seat that wasn’t occupied by clothes or broken instruments and buckled up.

“All right, splort,” Jaylen said, “I’m going to need directions.”

_ The Mason Residence _

NaN opened and closed the refrigerator for the seventh time. Nothing inside appealed to him, but he needed something to do with himself that wasn’t sitting patiently and quietly. Jaylen sipped from the can of root beer NaN fetched her on his third trip to the fridge and gave Sixpack a scratch behind the ears.

The back door rattled. Sixpack stood up and barked. NaN’s dad came inside, with sweat on his forehead and a platter of grilled fish in hand. He sliced a few pieces and set them on the table between the shredded cabbage and the sour cream. “I hope you like fish,” he told Jaylen. “We don’t eat red meat.”

Jaylen smiled in the least menacing way she could. “It’s about the care you put into it.”

Dad began to load floppy corn tortillas with vegetables and fish. “Sauce?” he asked, holding a bottle of hot sauce over one open taco.

NaN shook his head.

“Please,” Jaylen said.

Dad poured the sauce on the tacos and handed them to Jaylen and NaN. Jaylen put more sauce on hers before closing it.

“Pardon my ignorance, but you’re one of those blaseball players, aren’t you?” Dad asked Jaylen.

“The Jaylen Hotdogfingers, in the flesh and… You get what I mean.”

“Sorry, we’ve always been more of a klickball family. What brings you to our wonderful Los Angeles?”

Jaylen swallowed a bite of taco. “There’s an important ceremony at the blaseball headquarters at the end of every season. NaN and I were part of it. And the dog. She plays blaseball too.”

“I will have you know that I am a dogs,” Sixpack said in Wyatt’s voice.

Dad dropped his taco. Sixpack walked over to it as if he had dropped it for no reason.

“Oh no, not her too,” Jaylen whispered.

Dad retrieved his taco off the floor before Sixpack could eat it. “What happened to that dog?”

“The microphone,” NaN said.

“What?”

“You know how I came home one day like… this?” NaN gestured at his flickering un-body. “Ever since that day, I’ve had these dreams about a microphone. It speaks to me sometimes, but a lot of the messages didn’t really make sense. Today at that ceremony, all of us got little microphones from the Blaseball headquarters. I thought they were some kind of participation trophy until I touched mine. Then, everything clicked.”

NaN felt the energy Jaylen described at the street corner swelling inside of him. “For the first time in a long time, I felt like me. I was Wyatt Mason again. There’s something out there I’m missing, Dad, and I gotta know what it is. Maybe I can even fix the mess I made while I try to find myself.”

“I’ve seen this curse before,” Jaylen added. “Hell, I even caused it to happen to more than a few people. My teammates, current and former, told me what it feels like, and I’m 99% sure it’s happening to us now. They say there’s no escape; once it sets in, you’re at the mercy of the gods and the weather. If either of those things says you go, you go, whether you like it or not.”

Sixpack took a running start into the side of the living room couch. She slipped, stood back up, and ran under the table. “I could do this all day!”

Jaylen’s eye flared magenta. “As soon as the postseason is over, I’m taking the first exit out of Seattle. That curse won’t catch me if I can beat it first. I don’t know what your plan is, NaN, but I wouldn’t idle too long if I were you.”

They ate in relative silence for several minutes, punctuated only by the clicking of Sixpack’s claws as she explored the house. Jaylen dipped her taco into the pool of hot sauce that gathered on her plate, the fire in her eye growing with each bite. NaN poured himself a glass of water and moved to the couch. Dad cleared the table and sat next to him.

“I knew you’d have to leave me one day, NaN, but I never imagined it would be this soon,” Dad finally said.

This time, it was NaN’s turn to stare incredulously.

“You heard me. I’d rather you set out now, under the supervision of an adult who knows something about whatever is happening to you than for you to figure it out alone, because I know you’re going to want to leave no matter what I say. Ms. Hotdogfingers—”

“You can call me Jaylen, sir.”

“Jaylen. Sorry.” Dad placed his hand on NaN’s. “Do you want NaN to help you on your journey?”

“I don’t see why not. I already have the Fridays’ team pet in my care.”

“Can I trust you to keep him safe?”

Jaylen raised a bony hand. “I swear it on my second life.”

“That settles it,” Dad said. “I’m talking this wild plan through with the undead mayor of Seattle, my world-breaking child, and a dog that can talk with his voice. I’m sure there have been weirder things.” He gave NaN a pat on the back. “Go save the world, buddy.”

NaN spent the rest of the day packing his bags. He folded clothes that fit and set aside clothes he was growing out of. He agonized over whether it would make sense to shove a klickball in his backpack (no) and whether he should be prepared for a Yu-Gi-Oh duel at any moment (yes). Dad and Jaylen discussed things they had previously glossed over: how Jaylen intended to live while she was on the road, what to do if NaN had an allergic reaction or a meltdown or ran out of medication, the inherent and unpredictable dangers of Blaseball.

The sun rose the next morning over the Los Angeli that had suns. Everyone in the Mason house woke and prepared for the trip early in the morning. NaN gave Dad a hug before taking his bags to Jaylen’s Bus. Sixpack jumped into the front seat, so NaN found himself sitting where he sat before. It didn’t feel any less crowded, but it already felt a little more comfortable.

“Are you ready, NaN?” Jaylen asked over her shoulder.

NaN grinned. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

The bus rumbled as Jaylen turned the ignition. “Let’s do this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes on creative liberties I took:  
> \- I know my parents wouldn't let me go on a road trip with a stranger they knew for a few hours. Aub (the NaNbassador) helped me justify this in-universe, but I still feel like the explanation wasn't good enough.  
> \- Non-binary he/him NaN. I know what the Wiki says, but I disagree as respectfully as I can. After all, there are unlimited possibilities in unlimited Los Angeli.  
> \- Another Taco (uwunium, I think) headcanons NaN as ADHD. I took it a step further: autistic ADHD NaN. I apologize in advance for projecting on at least one character in every story I write.  
> \- The Yu-Gi-Oh thing came from a few offhand comments in the Discord, and that I once had a classmate who carried his Yu-Gi-Oh deck at all times, should he ever need it.  
> \- How are you supposed to refer to people in third person limited if your POV character knows another character by a title? Do you use that title? Do you refer to the relationship between the characters?  
> \- Jaylen's Volkswagen was actually inspired by something one of my teammates on the Fridays said, not a Garages fan. I'm hoping this is good enough.  
> \- Sixpack can talk through Mic Mason for convenience reasons, and because why not. Sixpack is a very good girls and I want to know what is going on in her head.  
> \- I promise Jaylen and Sixpack will have their turns in the spotlight.  
> \- This story will only vaguely resemble Blaseball canon because there's no way this could work in the context of the game.


	3. NaN With a PlaN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NaN consorts with unlikely allies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three feedback swaps in 90 minutes. I woke up this morning to this one, and thought "this is going to be fun!" Then NaN AND Jaylen decided to go bye-bye, and now I have a lot of work. This chapter is fairly rushed and uninteresting, given time constraints and burnout caused by overexertion during the siesta. I hope to get out at least today's two swaps by the end of the week, but I may not be able to properly keep up. Please forgive me.

_ Season 9, Day 6 _

_ Interstate 10 _

“No. No way, NaN. Absolutely not.”

“Come on!” NaN protested. “We’ve been on the 10 for days! Houston is supposed to be somewhere along the way!”

Jaylen adjusted her rearview mirror. “Even if we knew where to find the Spies, do you honestly think they’re going to let some kid they don’t know compromise their high-security facility in the middle of… Do you actually remember anything about where they’re at?”

The Bus lifted off the ground. NaN clutched his armrest and looked out the window for an explanation, but nothing that made sense was there. He wished for a bit that he had Sixpack’s willingness to accept anything the trip—or life—had thrown at him. She mostly stuck her head out the window and talked to passing cars. Even now, she was more preoccupied with Bangers and Smash to care that she was eighty feet in the air.

“Target located,” a voice crackled through Jaylen’s car radio. “Dispatching transportation crew.”

The Bus ascended through what appeared to be the opposite of trapdoors into what NaN incorrectly assumed was a military aircraft. Figures in long, dark coats or other garments surrounded them on all sides.

The radio crackled again. “Please turn off your vehicle. We have not been able to test our carbon monoxide alarms with the Firefighters and cannot ensure everyone’s safety with a running car in an enclosed space.”

“What do you want?” Jaylen asked them.

“You do not need to know our motives, but we already know yours. We are here to help.”

_ An Undisclosed Location _

Before he knew it, NaN found himself alone in a round, unfurnished room. He did not know how he got there, only that he felt cold and a little dizzy. The doors opened, and several of the figures entered with chairs, a lamp, a filing cabinet, and a boxy object on a rolling stand covered under cloth. Two chairs were placed opposite each other, with the filing cabinet and stand on one side and the lamp on the other. All except one left with empty hands.

“Sit,” the last one instructed.

NaN couldn’t believe it. He was going to be interrogated! He didn’t care for the harsh lights they used in the movies, but the lamp illuminated the floor and not his eyes.

“Do you understand why you are here?” his interrogator asked.

“I hope so. If I’m wrong, am I in trouble?”

The interrogator opened up the middle drawer of eir file cabinet and retrieved a paper-stuffed file folder. Ey pulled out a Tlopps card attached to the front with a paperclip and presented it to NaN. “Do you recognize this individual?”

NaN took the card and examined it. A teenager was featured on the front, labeled with “Wyatt Mason” and punctuated with a half-star marking. Wyatt smiled crookedly at the camera, leaning on a wooden blaseball bat with an awkward stance. His hair was unkempt and his legs seemed too long for the rest of his body. NaN found himself endeared, then melancholy, with how genuine the photo felt. He realized that he never had a face to attach to the name he had heard over and over, and finally put the card down.

“You are connected with this person’s disappearance. They were reportedly sighted by the Commissioner’s office at the end of Season 8 when you were handed the microphone. Watch closely.” The interrogator uncovered the object on the stand. A television with a small screen played back a recording of the Season 8 awards ceremony.

NaN stared at the pink flickers in the middle of the screen, looking for himself. He recognized the chunks of matter floating and dissipating from his head, but there were also patches of skin and a mouth full of braces on the same being. “...Am I Wyatt Mason?”

“We have not reached a conclusive answer,” the interrogator said. “It seems you do not know either. Our business here is done—”

“Wait!” NaN said.

“Yes?”

“I have a few more questions about me and Wyatt, and I think you guys might be able to help me answer them.”

The interrogator stood and tipped eir hat. “Follow me, then, and do not speak of this to anyone.”

_ Undisclosed Shopping Center _

_ Houston, TX _

NaN woke up with a manila folder in his lap. Sixpack panted in the passenger seat, greeting anyone who walked by with a “Hello!”

“Where’s Jaylen?” NaN asked her.

“Over there,” Sixpack said.

Sure enough, Jaylen approached the Bus carrying two paper bags. “Open up, one of you! My hands are too full for me to do that.”

NaN reached into the front and unlocked the Bus. Jaylen dropped the bags through the window; NaN placed them in the back with him. “What’s in here?”

“Lunch,” Jaylen said as she sat in the driver’s seat. “Pass me the spinach wrap if you can find it.”

NaN peeked in both before passing them up. One contained Jaylen’s wrap; the other had a tuna sandwich “Is the sandwich for me?”

“I couldn’t figure out what to get you, so yeah. Eat up.”

Sixpack sniffed Jaylen’s food. Jaylen gave her a pat on the head and procured a third package from her jacket pocket. “All right, girls, I got you something too. It’s not food, but I hope you like it anyway.” She reached inside to reveal a small stuffed elephant.

“Thank you so much!” Sixpack said. She picked the elephant up in her soft retriever mouth and gave it a gentle squeeze. It squeaked. Sixpack’s eyes lit up. “I LOVE IT!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fitzgerald Blackburn is in this chapter! Unfortunately, there was no real reason to reveal eir identity, so they are not mentioned by name in the story or tags. (Of course, I like to think ey had some nice interactions with NaN when the two of them had their top-secret meeting.) Also, Sixpack is a squeaker, don't tag me.


	4. A Walk on the Wild Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NaN settles with the dust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THEY KEEP MOVING SO FAST. This is ridiculous. I know how I'm going to do this, but time remains my greatest enemy. I have even had to sacrifice writing quality to get these out in a reasonably timely manner, never mind my other responsibilities.

_ Season 9, Day 7 _

_ Carretera Federal 85 _

Squeak. Squeak. Squeaksqueaksqueak. Squeeeeeak. NaN gritted his teeth and turned up his “Nightcore Essence” playlist. The files the Spies left him were difficult enough to decipher without Sixpack and her elephant. “Focus, NaN,” he told himself, but Sixpack’s toy kept on squeaking.

NaN took off his headphones. “This was a mistake. Do you agree with me yet?”

“I concede,” Jaylen said, clenching the steering wheel as if she wanted to strangle it. “But I also can’t bring myself to take it away from her.”

Sixpack put her toy on the dashboard. “You don’t like it?” she asked, face drooping.

Jaylen softened, the way she only did for Sixpack. “Sometimes we need a break from the noise, OK, girls? You must get tired too from all the squeaking.”

Sixpack picked up her toy between her jaws and held it.

“There,” Jaylen said. Her demeanor had returned to its usual. “Get back to work; we’re almost in Mexico City.”

NaN opened the folder again. The Wyatt Mason card was the only thing he could accurately identify and read. Everything else was hidden in a cipher, recorded in an unfamiliar script, or run through Google Translate twenty times so the original meaning was lost. There was a note taped to the inside of the folder explaining the last process, with another note underneath detailing how it was rookie Spies’ most frustrating training exercise.

He gave up and looked out the window. Trees lined the highway, yet the grass came up brown and dry. The sky was nearly cloudless, offering little protection from the blazing sun. It reminded NaN of Los Angeli, and he found himself wondering what Dad was doing at home.

Large buildings began to appear in the distance. Living grass grew in between patches of gravel. This was Mexico City. NaN had been to the Bucket many times before, but he had never had the time to see much above ground before he had to leave for the next series.

“A friend of mine told me I should take a right somewhere around here,” Jaylen said under what would have been her breath. “The whole ‘underground’ thing makes it really difficult. Couldn’t imagine being a Wings fan…” She drove toward an exit shaded by an overpass.

_ The Second City _

The shade didn’t stop after twenty feet. The shade didn’t stop after fifty. Looking out made NaN suspect that they left the very concept of sunlight behind. Jaylen turned on her headlights. The roads ahead were dusty and unpaved, weaving between brick buildings with tin roofs and statues made of brambles and bone. There were next to no forks in the roads, so wherever the roads took them, they went.

Jaylen’s Bus slowed to a stop. She cursed and pounded the wheel.

“What’s wrong?” asked Sixpack.

“I had enough reserve to reach a gas station above ground, but no one told me to expect this freakish hedge maze of a city.”

The three of them waited in the Bus. NaN glitched out of his seat, then back into it. Sixpack squeaked her toy again. Jaylen fiddled with the radio, trying to catch anything that wasn’t static. 

“Do you want me to go out and find you gas?” NaN asked. “My moped gets a hundred miles to the gallon.”

“This place gives  _ me _ the creeps. If I was your dad, I wouldn’t let you wander here alone.”

NaN sighed and hunched over. “Can I at least take Sixpack for a walk?”

“Fine,” Jaylen said. “Sixpack is better than no supervision.”

Once he got Sixpack leashed up, NaN walked down the roads with her. “Hello?” Sixpack repeated at anything that looked like it breathed. “Hello? The dust absorbed most of the sounds of the underground, leaving little more than an eerie silence between her calls. “Hello?” NaN tried to ignore how similar Sixpack sounded to him.

“Who’s there?” someone shouted.

“Sixpack Dogwalker and NaN,” Sixpack said. NaN found himself impressed; no one had pronounced his name correctly before. He couldn’t blame them for not being able to spontaneously reverse their speech, but it was still a pleasant surprise that someone could.

A man emerged from behind brick walls. “Since when could dogs talk?”

“The Microphone did it.”

The man stepped onto the road. “Burke Gonzales, pitcher for the Mexico City Wild Wings. What brings you two here?”

“Road trip,” NaN explained. “We’re trying to solve a very big problem and we happen to need gas.”

“Where’s your vehicle?”

Sixpack turned around, and NaN beckoned for Burke to follow. Burke gestured to NaN to wait. He disappeared behind the walls, then reappeared with a gas can in one hand. They returned to the Bus to find Jaylen dormant behind the wheel, one eye closed and the other dim.

“Wake up,” Burke said through the window. Jaylen did not respond.

Sixpack pulled on her leash. “Let me in,” she told NaN. “I have an idea.”

NaN opened the door for Sixpack. She jumped into her seat, picked up the elephant, and squeaked it five or six times by Jaylen’s ear.

Jaylen’s eye flared up, lighting the toy on fire. She took it out of Sixpack’s mouth and flung it into the dirt. “SIXPACK!”

Sixpack watched her toy burn outside.

“At least we brought you gas?” NaN said. Burke held up the can.

Jaylen dragged herself out of the Bus and emptied the can into it. “Wait, you play blaseball.”

“As do you,” Burke responded. “The notorious Jaylen Hotdogfingers.”

“Never mind that. Past stlatistics tell me the Second City has a notable lack of weather events, since it’s, you know, underground. Can you keep NaN safe here? I wouldn’t trust him anywhere else right now; we can’t afford to break more cities into infinite pieces without completely knowing what the Microphone can do.”

Burke raised a graying eyebrow. “We do have a player vacancy, and someone’s gotta fill it...”

_ Burke Gonzales’s Apartment _

_ The Second City _

NaN waved to Jaylen and Sixpack as they drove back to the surface, freshly fueled up. He locked his moped to a bent signpost and slung his bags over his shoulders.

Burke started up the stairs. “We can’t help you with your NaN plan, but we do have a bit of a gripe with the Microphone ourselves. Anyone who can avenge us is welcome here.”

“You guys know the Microphone too?” NaN asked. “How?”

“The Mild Wings debacle,” Burke scoffed.

“The what now?”

NaN and Burke stopped on the third floor. Burke led NaN to his apartment and opened the door. A long time ago, NaN probably could have identified the incomplete, three-foot-long dinosaur skull that grinned at him inside. This information was now irrelevant to his life, and a small part of him wished that dinosaurs were still the most pressing thing for him to worry about.

Burke popped open a can of beer. “Welcome home, NaN. Have a seat.”

NaN did as he was told.

“You’ve really never heard of the Commissioner’s libel?” Burke asked after a sip. He sat on the other side of his couch and put down his beer. “Nobody told you about the Mild Wings?”

“Nope.”

Burke exhaled. “Very well. I can’t expect you to know now, but by the time the league ships you out, you're going to have this memorized. It all began in Season 5, after the High Filter came into effect...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a much better idea for this last night, but I didn't write it down and forgot it after I fell asleep. As usual, footnotes:  
> \- I visited Carretera Federal 85 in Google Maps so I knew what I was talking about. I live thousands of miles from Mexico.  
> \- Thank you, NaNbassador, for sharing that the Wild Wings do in fact have a connection with the Microphone.  
> \- Author write anything other than dialogue challenge.  
> \- Sorry, guys, I had to ruin my pre-established structure to make this story possible at all.  
> \- PLEASE read the summary and notes for the next chapter before actually reading it!


	5. Pitching Fuel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNINGS  
> Please ignore or skip this chapter if you are sensitive to any of the following: cursed food, cursed physiology, hazing rituals, a minor in a vulnerable situation, vomiting.  
> Edit from the future: So it turns out this chapter does contain plot-relevant information. All you need to know, should you be a sensitive or reasonable reader, is that NaN finds a way to decode the files from the Spies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to the Mexico City Wild Wings. Thanks for letting me into your chat and answering my less cursed questions mostly regarding the previous chapter. Stay wild!
> 
> For everyone else, I apologize in advance for everything ahead of the cutoff. I hate myself and I hated every second I spent on this. This is probably the worst thing I've ever dared to publish. If you are at all familiar with the Pitching Fuel discussion, you already know this will be a very gross chapter.

_ Burke Gonzales’s Apartment _

_ The Second City _

There were multiple knocks at Burke’s door. “Come in, Wings,” he said.

The door opened. Twelve players crammed onto the couch and dining table, wherever they could fit. A small owlish one that NaN recognized as Lawrence Horne sat on him without his permission.

“Pardon their manners,” Burke told NaN. “They make all these plans, and yet they fail to inform me when they’re coming and what they’re doing until they’re already through the door.”

Silvia Rugrat scanned NaN from head to toe. NaN froze under her gaze, afraid to do anything that might give them a first bad impression of him. “Is this who they sent in Sosa’s place?” she asked.

Burke shrugged. “That Hotdogfingers lady wants me to take care of him, so I don’t see why not.”

“But this is the Los Angeli kid.”

“Correct.”

“Sosa went to the Spies.”

“And Valentine Games went to the Tacos.”

A paper airplane flew into the open window, with the words “KEEP NaN” on each wing. Black bars covered the text on the body of the plane. Summers unfolded it and showed it to Burke, who gave her a nod.

“Listen up, everybody!” Silvia announced. “This is NaN, formerly of the Unlimited Tacos and supposedly the Houston Spies! Apparently he’s one of ours now, so show him some love!”

NaN waved shyly to the Wild Wings. They all burst into raucous applause.

“Now, we didn’t come here for nothing. What’s on the menu tonight, Wings?”

Rafael uncapped a gallon-sized milk jug. “We’re making Pitching Fuel! A Wild Wings specialty!”

The rest of the Wings groaned.

NaN raised a finger. “So the Wild Wings specialty isn’t the wings?”

“It’s a Rafael Davids specialty,” Ronan Combs said. “The rest of us are fine with the wings.”

“No one who values their taste buds will even touch the Pitching Fuel,” Mullen Peterson added.

NaN listened to the liquid fizzing in its jug. “It’s… explain this to me, please?”

“Of course!” Rafael grinned, his tusks shining under the yellow light of the ceiling fixtures. “It all starts with milk. My favorite is whole milk, but it should be fine as long as it comes from an animal. Then you carbonate it; the fizz does wonders for me. Warm your milk up, and finally, add your sauce!”

“Sauce?!”

“Sauce makes the Wing, NaN! The wilder, the better! Want to give a try?”

NaN was never one for spicy food. A spicy drink sounded even worse. Neither of those things prevented his curiosity from getting the best of him. “I… I don’t know why, but I have to,” he said.

Rafael howled in delight. He gave NaN a rough slap on the back, nearly knocking him to the floor. “Finally, someone wild enough to join me!”

Summers Preston and Stephanie Winters exchanged glances. “Should we really let them do this?” Summers asked.

“That’s not my decision,” Stephanie answered. “Who am I to stop him?”

Rafael grabbed a glass from Burke’s cupboard and poured some milk into it. “I already prepared the milk. It’s even warm from sitting out!” He squirted wing sauce into the glass and his jug. NaN took the glass. “You have to drink it as soon as you make it! One!”

NaN stared into his glass as he raised it. His eyes watered from the smell.

“Two!”

NaN tipped it toward his mouth. “Chug! Chug! Chug!” Axel Cardenas chanted.

“Three!”

Rafael and NaN tilted their heads back and drank. It tasted primal and burned all the way down. He gasped for air as he lowered his empty glass. Axel cheered, but the other Wings gawked at NaN in what he guessed was disbelief.

“How do you feel, champ?” Rafael asked.

“This is incredible,” NaN said, his tongue still tingling from the heat. Everything else had a new clarity to it. The Spies’ ciphers clicked, and he could have deciphered a page of his notes in the time it took to put his glass down. He remembered every event from his past at once, and the future unraveled itself before him. “I can see forever…”

Rafael laughed a hearty laugh. “That’s Pitching Fuel for ya!”

The past was fairly stable, but there were more futures than NaN imagined there would be. Many of them spread over the infinite realities, each with their own nuances that made them worth considering. The Plan worked in enough of them that NaN had to record how. He stood up to find a pen and paper, wobbled a bit, and gagged. The Pitching Fuel was fighting back.  _ Oh no, _ he thought.  _ This is going to suck. _

Before he had the chance to turn away, NaN threw up. Void black followed milky white onto Burke’s grimy shag carpet. To his horror, the milk had somehow curdled after he drank it, and the liquid it left behind continued to foam. NaN couldn’t decide whether he felt better or worse after that. On the one hand, his stomach settled to a manageable level. On the other hand, everything hurt.

Axel grimaced at a seething Silvia. Summers left the room in a hurry, and her girlfriend followed. Mullen pulled Rafael aside by one horn. “Never give that abomination to anyone else, you hear me? The only reason we haven’t taken it from you is because we can use all the stars we can get.”

Rafael nodded solemnly.

“I’m so sorry,” NaN mumbled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” Burke said. “Raf shouldn’t have even let you touch that.”

“It’s my fault. I wanted to know what it tasted like.”

Burke turned a sympathetic eye to NaN. “Fire. Fire and acid and the spirit of Wingtzilopochtli. One of us could have warned you that it’s too wild for our mortal souls. Come on, buddy, let’s get you cleaned up.”

“Perhaps you’d like a spaghetti macchiato in the morning?” Larry offered.

“NO!” the rest of his teammates yelled.

_ █████ ██, ████ ███ _

_ An Undisclosed Location _

Fitzgerald Blackburn’s phone rang. Xe picked up the receiver and put it where xyr ears would go if xe had them. “Hello?”

“We received some groundbreaking intel on the Wild Wings,” Alexandria Rosales told xem.

Blackburn sat up. “What have we discovered?”

“The secret to Rafael Davids’s four-star pitching is spicy milk.”

“...Spicy milk? Is that some sort of code?”

“No, sirram. It’s exactly what it sounds like.”

“Oh,” Blackburn whispered. “Oh, God…”

Alexandria tutted to themself. “Maybe our rotation is fine just the way it is.”

“Indeed. Even so, don’t let this information reach the public eye. Goodbye, Alexandria, and ███████.”

“Goodbye.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course, I can't forget footnotes, especially not for something as awful as this.  
> \- I could have gone my whole life blissfully unaware of the unholy concoction that is Pitching Fuel if Fancymancer hadn't drawn this comic: https://twitter.com/Fancymancer/status/1313899777554145280?s=20 As a result, I have drawn heavy inspiration from it and the discussion that followed its reveal.  
> \- In case you wonder what drinking Pitching Fuel is like, I was too mild to actually try it. On that note, shoutout to the madlads from the Wings who drank the closest things to Pitching Fuel they could make from their homes. The general consensus is that it was not very good.  
> \- Even with my inability to consume anything spicier than black pepper (no, I'm not white), some personal experience is included here. You're welcome.  
> \- Apparently, the Second City is a hub for food crimes now???  
> EDIT FROM THE FUTURE (17 Oct): I tried it. It didn't taste like anything, it just felt like pain. I tried to chug it, but couldn't swallow more than the first gulp. On the plus side, I have the dubious honor of the "Drank Spicy Milk" role in the Unlimited Taco Stand.
> 
> Regarding ███ ████:  
> -The inconsistency with Fitzgerald's pronouns was completely intentional. I stand by what I said in Houston and in here.


	6. Home Away from Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaylen returns to her own responsibilities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's about time; I'm back with all your feedback-angsting needs. The holdover notes have been cleared, and the longer one was saved offsite. I apolozige for the four-week delay.

_ Season 9, Day 7 _

_ México City, CDMX _

Jaylen’s phone buzzed as soon as she returned to the surface. At first, she ignored it. It buzzed six more times in the next minute, prompting her to pull over and check what could possibly be so important for her to know.

**Missed call: Oliver Mueller**

**Oliver Mueller**

> hey jaylen

> JAYLEN

> PICK UP YOUR PHONE

> WHERE ARE U

> JAYLEN

> WTF

Jaylen realized that the Garages were completely out of the loop. They knew she and her Bus were gone, but not where they went. There was no way they would have known she was chaperoning NaN on what must be the adventure of a lifetime for him.

< Can you wait

> NO

< What now

> we signed BETSY TROMBONE

< You really couldnt wait to share that

> no cuz she has ur contract

> part of the band, part of the blaseball

< What about me

> wbu

< What does that make me if shes part of the team now

> a philly pie

< Excuse me WHAT

> u havent picked up ur trumpet in ages

> and farrell 2

> and whats ska w/o brass

< But thats the band and this is blaseball

< I AM YOUR BEST PITCHER

> pies still need another player

> also ur the pitcher that oblitarated 12 players

> so idk about “““best”””

Jaylen growled and slammed her Blackblerry onto the dashboard. The fire in her eye flared out, scorching the Bus’s ceiling. Things were different now, she promised them a thousand times over; there had to be another way to clear her debts. Tot Clark’s unstable shuddering still shook Jaylen to her bones. Malik’s yowls of agony still clawed at her ears. She didn’t—no, she couldn’t—forget what happened to them. If she had any say in the matter, she would never do it again.

“Are you all right?” Sixpack asked.

“We’re going far away from here, Sixpack,” Jaylen told her, stroking her head. “I didn’t plan for this, but it looks like you and I are going to Philadelphia. Do you know where that is?”

“That’s a cold place.”

“What a smart girls. Yeah, I bet it’s colder than Hawaiʻi.”

“What are we going to do in Philadelphia, Jaylen?”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s all part of the plan.”

It was not part of the plan and Jaylen was pretty sure Sixpack knew it too. She didn’t exactly compare to a human, but Sixpack was a lot smarter than she let on.

_ Tampico, Tamaulipas _

Jaylen shielded her flaming eye with one hand and refilled her gas tank with the other. The attendant screamed and ran away when she tried to pay upfront, so she left a couple of 500-peso notes and a fistful of change on the counter. She wondered for a second what would happen if her eye picked up a drop of the gasoline, but did nothing to satisfy this curiosity, instead hanging the nozzle back up once her tank was full.

_ San Fernando, Tamaulipas _

Sixpack walked Jaylen to a strip of grass. “Is anybody looking?” Sixpack asked.

“Why would they?”

“I don’t know, but you can’t look either.”

Jaylen turned toward the Bus and huffed. Her ribs compressed, but no breath came from her nose or mouth. “Come on, it’s getting dark.”

“Wait!”

“What?!”

Sixpack kicked up the grass behind her. “Never mind, I’m fine.”

“What a goof,” Jaylen muttered, bending over to pick up after Sixpack. “But I never thought I’d meet a dogs who liked me for more than the smell of my fingers.”

_ Houston, TX _

The Bus veered to the left. Jaylen stared listlessly into the middle distance. A burst of static from the radio shocked her to attention. She shook it off and re-centered the Bus on the empty road.

“Jaylen Hotdogfingers, we have more intel,” a youthful voice informed Jaylen. “Please roll down your passenger-side window to accept the incoming parcel.”

Jaylen frowned, but rolled down her window. A drone flung a capsule the approximate size of a shoebox into the Bus.

“Get this to NaN for us, will you?”

With a solemn nod, Jaylen rolled up the window and continued on.

_ Meridian, MS _

Jaylen could stay awake as long as the fire that was her heart kept burning. She ate more to fuel the fire than for nutrition. That didn’t stop her from parking behind a CVS, crawling into the back of the Bus, and stretching herself over the back seats. A checked jacket she wore in rainier weather became a pillow; faded Garages T-shirts from better days served as blankets. She relaxed her remaining muscles, listening to Sixpack’s snuffly snoring. Even if she didn’t need to sleep, it felt good to take her mind off of the broken world she returned to.

_ Interstate 81, VA _

There was nothing good the radio could pick up this far away from the big cities. Jaylen turned it off and gripped the steering wheel harder, trying to ignore the silence she created. As much as she hated to admit it, she missed the background noise.

NaN talked a lot. At first, he asked Jaylen anything that came to mind.

“Why do you have hot dogs for fingers?” (“Why do you have fingers for fingers?” Jaylen asked back.)

“Is being the mayor as miserable and boring as it sounds?” (“Hell yeah it is; I wouldn’t force it on anyone who wasn’t 1000% committed to their community.”)

“Do you like Plokémon or Dligimon better?” (Jaylen could not answer this question.)

“What’s it like being actually good at blaseball?” (Jaylen would not answer this question.)

Eventually, as NaN’s curiosity was sated, he withdrew, talking more to himself than to Jaylen or Sixpack. When Jaylen asked him about it, he would only give her vague and bashful answers before putting his headphones on and vibrating until a dark, dense cloud formed around him.

Sixpack didn’t have her elephant anymore, either. Jaylen couldn’t remember what silly name she gave it, but even its incessant squeaking would probably have been less bad than the rush of oncoming traffic and lingering regrets rattling in her head. It was also a lot harder talking out her thoughts and feelings with an animal who could actually talk back.

Jaylen tuned her radio to the first thing it picked up. 21st-century hits. Great. She and Sixpack were going to listen to Adlele and Ed Shleeran if it killed them.

_ Washington, D.C. _

Jaylen swore she brushed elbows with someone who looked exactly like Mike Townsend in the convenience store.  _ That doesn’t make sense, _ she thought, before remembering how utterly generic and forgettable Mike’s whole existence was.  _ Eh, must have been the negative chin. _

_ Tastykake Stadium _

_ Philadelphia, PA _

It took Jaylen fifteen minutes and a shouting match to find parking. In Seattle, the Garages reserved a stall for her after her death, complete with a metal sign. After all, what would the Hotdogfingers Memorial Climate Pledge Garage and Parking Facility be without the Hotdogfingers? She had no such fame and privilege here.

Jaylen entered the Philly Pies dugout for the first time. “You’re late,” Jaxon Buckley drawled. They handed Jaylen a jersey, which she slipped on over her flannel. “How does one miss five whole innings of a game they were supposed to pitch?”

“Who was I scheduled to pitch for?” Jaylen asked.

“The Garages.”

Jaylen spat over the railing. “Tough shit.”

Jaxon raised an eyebrow.

“Look, the Garages gave me maybe 48 hours’ notice. I told them I’d be out a while—long story—but they had the audacity to trade me off anyway.”

“Well, welcome to the team,” Farrell Seagull said. “It’s good to play ball with you again.”

Lang Richardson stood up and gave Jaylen a hug. “Jaylen, Jaylen, Jaylen! It’s been an age!” He launched into another of his improvised monologues, something something unforgettable legacy something return to glory something something. She indulged him for the next couple of innings, only getting the chance to rest her ears when it was his turn to bat.

When Lang finally let Jaylen go, she decided to explore the dugout. It wasn’t much different than the away dugout she was more familiar with. Someone hung a whiteboard and colored magnets to track where the Pies lineup. The water fountains were roped off with caution tape and labeled “DO NOT TOUCH.” A six-foot-tall peanut shell lay on the linoleum floor. Jaylen stepped slowly away from it. If Jessica crawled out of that shell, she could and would literally beat the living daylights out of Jaylen, and she wasn’t in the mood to take chances.

Peanut Holloway returned to the dugout as the umpire called for a change. The Pies put on their caps and mitts and carried Jessica to center field. She watched them put her down and disperse, then went back to the bench to sulk alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I hope the montage-style snapshot writing actually worked.  
> \- It was, for some reason, significantly harder to write Jaylen than it was to write NaN.  
> \- Before the siesta, someone had the brilliant idea that Jaylen would still own a Blackberry from several years ago (before she died).  
> \- I like how 95% of Blaseball has the same collective mental image of Mike Townsend: some scruffy white guy with negative chin and bad posture, but utterly unremarkable aside from those two features.  
> \- *insert Blake Snell of the Tampa Bay Rays joke*


	7. Back So Soon?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jaylen doesn't sleep, not that she needs it anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know how I said the thing about quality control at some point in time? Well. Not only is the title ironic given my inconsistent upload schedule, I didn't edit this or anything anyway. (CW petty complaints, self-deprecation) My pacing sucks, my motivation is as dead as Jessi Wise (deep cut), and I feel like I'm losing my Jaylen voice. I had to release something, though, just to say I did.

_ Season 9, Day 21 _

_ The Big Garage, Seattle, WA _

**Missed call: Greer Gwiffin**

_ You have: one new voicemail. _

“Hey, Jaylen, this is, uh, Gwiff, calling on behalf of the Seattle Garages. You know how we released you last week or whenever we did it? Well, Marshallow sold out to the Pies, so forget that ever happened. You remember that interview he did—ah, no, you wouldn’t; he did an interview for the REDEMPTION ARC album we released when you were still dead. Sorry ‘bout that. I guess, uh, Tastykake took an interest in some bit he included about the Ghostbusters Marshmallow Man, so he’s going to be doing… something! Probably a promotion for a Jessica Telephone fluffernutter tribute pie or some God-awful thing like that. He says they’re still going to let him pitch as a side hustle, so we called and asked if we could get you back, and, well, don’t pack your bags tomorrow, ‘cause you’re staying with us. Did you hear about...”

Jaylen switched off her phone and sat up from her cot. Gwiff was probably still awake. She expected nothing less from the wide-eyed were-owl, nearly notorious among his teammates for leaving the light on in the recording studio and microwaving his midnight snacks. A hazy memory resurfaced of the night Jaylen instilled the fear of whisper-yelling in him. She had tripped over an extension cord on her way from the bathroom, and the only person who could have ran it overnight was Gwiff. Good times. Her problems were much simpler then.

The microwave beeped. Talons skittered across the linoleum floor. Gwiff opened the microwave, illuminating a warm plate of what seemed to be dino nuggets. Before he could retreat into the recording studio, Jaylen gave him a quick  _ psst _ .

Gwiff screeched and dropped his plate. “What did I do this time?”

Jaylen watched the plate bounce harmlessly off the floor. “Microwave our plastic plates,” she whispered. “No wonder they’re all misshapen.”

“You got up at one in the morning to chastise me about microwaving plates?”

“No, I got up at one in the morning because  _ someone _ sent me a long-winded voicemail.”

“Oh, yeah,” Gwiff mused, “I suppose I did do that.”

After Gwiff recovered his nuggets, Jaylen followed him into the recording studio. Gwiff closed the door and turned on the lights.

“What do you need lights for?” Jaylen asked. “I thought owls could see in the dark?”

“You need to see, right?” Gwiff asked back.

“But every other night, it’s just you in here making noise. Since we’re on this train of thought, you have a whole set of flight feathers designed for you to silently pursue prey. You still choose to click your toes on the floor and eat out of our freezer.”

Gwiff ate one of his floor nuggets. “You think I can fly with this bod? They call me ‘Steely Dad’ for a reason.”

Jaylen scoffed. “No one calls you that.”

“Uh, it’s literally the name of my podcast. ‘Steely Dads!’ with Gwiff and Spliff.” Gwiff put another nugget in his beak. “If you’re just going to whine at me all night, go back to sleep. If not, what can I do ya for?”

“I’m on a mission, Gwiff, and by the gods, it’s a big one.”

Gwiff pulled a field recorder from his pocket.

“Oh, put that away!” Jaylen hissed.

Gwiff slid the recorder back into his pocket.

Jaylen lifted her hands and waved her floppy fingers for dramatic effect. “It’s about the end of the world as we know it. The fourth strike. The Microphone’s PlaN. I’m in on all of it. Ever since that ceremony at the end of the last season, I’ve been roaming on its accord. The feedback draws me in and spits me out wherever it sees fit.”

“You don’t say?” Gwiff raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Spliff and me, we’re doing, uh, a ‘Steely Dads!’ Wyatt Masoning special in a few weeks. Did you happen to get the Microphone’s pronouns, ‘cause we’re probably going to need those.”

Jaylen’s human eye narrowed. “I vaguely remember you running a conspiracy podcast,” she said. “For some reason, I remember you sending me a long rant about wild theories surrounding Wyatt Davenport—”

“Dovenpart,” Gwiff corrected.

“Dovenpart,” Jaylen continued, “and it was one of the most baseless and ridiculous things I ever heard. At first I thought you and Spliff were joking, but if this is an entire series…”

“We’re getting insider information from every Los Angeles we can contact, and condensing the  _ facts _ into something the everyday American understands—”

Jaylen laughed insincerely. “Gwiff, that’s a lofty load of bull if I’ve ever heard one.”

“What do you mean?!” Gwiff spluttered. “Our sources are trustworthy and—and, uh—”

“Three Dovenparts. Absolute nonsense in and of itself. Then you somehow take it farther and tell me one of them is named Eel Divingboard. Why would there be duplicate Wyatt Masons if Wyatt Davenport pitched the Grand Unslam?”

“How would I know that? ‘Steely Dads!’ updates whenever we get new information, but that doesn’t mean we have everything at any given time.”

Jaylen pinched the bridge of what remained of her nose. “I’m going to drop this topic for your sake and mine. Well, mostly yours. Less... controversial question: what happened to my bed?”

“Oh yeah,” Gwiff said through another beakful of floor nugget. “Betsy borrowed it. Hope you don’t mind, ‘cause you weren’t there to complain. We can freshen up Henry’s stuff for you after tomorrow if you like?”

“If it was literally anyone else, I would appreciate that offer.” Jaylen stood and began to pace past her friends’—no, the band’s instruments. Some reminded her of the team she grew to give a damn about: Teddy’s marimba and four mallets, Malik’s hurdy-gurdy cradled in its fuzzy case, Gwiff’s EWI reclining on a folding chair. Others were just kind of there. The percussion table got there after Jaylen did. She couldn’t remember who played the baritone saxophone or the electric violin. All tempting and new additions to the band, if only she could play along with them.

“Gwiff, I got another question for you.”

“Hmm?”

_ Do you know what it’s like to lose the passion that connects you to everyone else you care about? _

_ Do you know what it’s like to be feared and revered in the same shaky breath? _

_ Do you know what it’s like to have so many people in your life and still feel alone? _

Jaylen sighed a breathless sigh. “Do you know a guy who can bring my Bus here from Philly?”

“Of course I do,” Gwiff assured her.

“When do you think he can get it to the Big Garage by?”

“Knowing him, it’s going to be a while. Sorry about that.”

“No, that’s all right,” Jaylen said. “Sometimes, you just need to park it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, headcanons that no one asked for:  
> \- Quack Enjoyable plays percussion table staples.  
> \- Gwiff talks like Scooter from Sleep With Me. (Disclaimer: I am not a regular Sleep With Me listener.)  
> \- Part of Gwiff's were-owliness means he can't fly, turn his head more than 135 degrees, or swivel his toes. On the other hand, he is able to comfortably see his non-swiveling toes because he isn't completely farsighted.  
> \- I read Guardians of Ga'Hoole as a kid.
> 
> Another fun fact: I had different plans for this conversation. It was originally intended to be band practice with the Season 9 gang all together, except how is Jaylen going to play the trumpet without any lips? That would have been a weird scene, though, given 1) plot relevance is basically out the window (you try having productive conversations over that cacophony); 2) knowing me, I would have channeled my high school loneliness into Jaylen instead of advancing the plot anyway; and 3) Gwiff may be a flake, but I love him for it and he deserves to be acknowledged.


End file.
